Behind Bars
by Elda Gee
Summary: How shall it end?


I

"John has been in prison for the past two years, Sherlock."

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation as to how Sherlock came to find himself the recipient of such unreasonable news.

Sherlock had been in hot pursuit of Moriarty's men, particularly one by the name of Sebastian Moran who threatened the safety of himself and those intimately acquainted with him. It had taken all but three years and a race around the world, so to speak, for Sherlock to snare Moran within his own trap that he had so ingeniously hand-crafted in an attempt to capture the sly detective.

Sherlock had returned to London, as Moran had anticipated he would, but what remained unknown to him was the detective's extensive knowledge of his plans of murder which he would alert the authorities to. Or so Sherlock believed.

Before assisting in one of London's greatest criminal arrests, Sherlock had endeavoured to reveal his very-much-alive self to his friend, John Watson. It was a task he was obliged to perform and the imagined consequences of which made Sherlock sigh as he had made to leave Lestrade's office.

Sherlock had given the detective-inspector very specific instructions that he pressed were of the utmost importance if the arrest were to be successful. Lestrade had taken Sherlock's word, after more than a small amount of convincing, and had ensured him that a group of his finest would be set to the task. It goes without saying that Anderson was of the first chosen to take part.

Sherlock had found it amusing to see the reactions of those that saw him to be alive and well in contrast to their previous beliefs. He did not anticipate a similar scenario with the case of John however. His friend would be furious, as rightly he ought to be, and would not hesitate to express his turmoil in a more physical manner.

Alas, Sherlock found himself at the reception of the medical centre wherein his friend had worked. _Better sooner than later_, Sherlock thought as he inquired after the doctor. The woman at the reception kindly told him that Dr. John Watson had been terminated from work just over two years ago. Despite further questioning Sherlock learned nothing more than the reason John had left was unstated.

After leaving the centre Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to his brother.

_Where is John? –SH_

_You have more important matters at hand –MH_

The response was as quick as it was dull. His brother was hiding something. He had always been a terrible liar, much too obvious in his attempts to mask the truth according to Sherlock. Regardless, Mycroft did have a point. The sun was beginning its slow descent so Sherlock hailed a cab. He could always find John later but only had one attempt to capture Moran.

He had made all of the necessary preparations beforehand and now he waited. He was crouched in a corner right by a window that had a clear view of his old apartment. Inside the apartment was a dummy that sat posed as himself on his armchair. The light had been lit punctually by Mrs. Hudson who had been an emotional avalanche upon seeing his return. The light produced a wonderful shadow indicating the presence of a person within the apartment.

Sherlock held his breath as he heard the faint approach of footsteps. The sounds amplified in volume as they neared the window then halted completely. The next sound was that of a bag opening and a metallic object being retrieved. From the light of the moon and stars which peered through the window Sherlock could make out the masked figure and the outline of a very powerful and fatally quiet sniper rifle.

The person took aim and after just a moment, fired the deadly weapon. The bullet pierced through the apartment's window and struck the sitting mannequin directly in the head. An instantaneous death.

Just at that moment Sherlock pounced at the person, disarming him and used his own body weight to keep the man pressed to the ground. Then, seemingly from the shadows, Lestrade and his squad made their presence known in the room and proceeded to take custody of the man.

After brushing off the dust from his clothes, Sherlock proceeded to approach the assassin. "At long last our great race has come to an end," Sherlock took hold of the mask on the man's head and pulled; "Sebastian Moran."

But indeed it was not Moran. The man who stared back at Sherlock from under the mask was only a henchman who dared to smile viciously at Sherlock and Lestrade's bewildered expressions. "Guess again," he said with a smirk.

Sherlock paced around for a moment, pondering at which point he had erred. He returned to the man; "Where is Sebastian Moran?" The man looked at Sherlock, then at the window and began to laugh frantically. The sound of his laughter was soon overcome by gurgling sounds as a bullet pierced the man's throat and he began choking on his own blood. Another shot pierced his head and the man's body became limp.

Sherlock raced to the window. There were two fresh bullet holes in the glass of the window of 221B Baker St. Lestrade was calling after him but Sherlock was well out of earshot by then.

Sherlock stormed into the apartment, noticing that the door had been left open as though mocking the consulting detective. The room was void of any living being beside himself to Sherlock's dismay. He surveyed the room carefully for any traces of a lead to the shooter.

It didn't take very long for Sherlock to notice the large, scarlet letters that adorned the chest of the mannequin which sat as he had left it in his armchair.

_WHERE IS JOHN? -SM_

Sherlock immediately examined the writing and confirmed that it was paint, not blood. Moran was toying with him and Sherlock wasn't impressed in the least. If John had somehow gotten involved with Moran then the last three years had been for naught.

Upon entering the apartment Lestrade was greeted with the sight of Sherlock seemingly trying to decapitate a porcelain mannequin. "Am I interrupting something?" Lestrade asked quizzically as he approached Sherlock. With a final rough tug Sherlock managed to pull of the head. A solid object fell to the floor with a clatter as the head was raised. Sherlock recognised the object immediately.

"Isn't that John's phone?" Lestrade inquired as Sherlock stood up, picked up the phone and began examining its surface. "Obviously," Sherlock replied monotonously and raised the mannequin in front of him into a sitting position; "but, _where is John?_"

Lestrade was startled for a moment, both upon realising the striking writing and even more so at the tone of Sherlock's voice. The malice in his voice was very thinly veiled. "I thought you would have known," Lestrade replied uneasily, rubbing his chin with his hand. "Known what?" Sherlock pressed on urgently.

Lestrade sighed and shuffled in his spot uncomfortably. _Mycroft was meant to handle this_, he thought to himself. "Just spit it out," Sherlock urged, tightening his grip on what was undoubtedly John's phone. "If someone's done something to John-" Sherlock began but was interrupted by Lestrade, "No, no, nothing like that. John's alive and well. Kind of. It's just that..." "Just that..?" Sherlock insisted pacing toward Lestrade now.

"John has been in prison for the past two years, Sherlock." Those words halted Sherlock in his tracks. "What?" he asked in a combination of disbelief and confusion. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders sympathetically; "I'm sorry Sherlock, but I thought Mycroft would have told you by now." "What for?" Sherlock muttered. "Being your brother and all-" "No, why is John in jail?" Sherlock interrupted, pacing about the room again. "Murder. Shot his sister's fiancé," Lestrade explained watching the consulting detective carefully. Sherlock scoffed, "murder, clearly. It is his area of expertise after all."

"Sorry, _what_?" But Sherlock paid no heed to Lestrade and continued muttering with his hands joint and pressed just under his mouth; "but how would he have done it? Poison, no, too tedious. A knife...too messy. Almost definitely a gun, something he's familiar with. I need evidence, no amount of deductions will be of use without proof. I'll need to visit the crime scene-" "Sherlock!" Lestrade was standing with his hands pressed against his hips, unamused.

"I handled the case personally, Sherlock, but all the evidence pointed to John as the killer. Now I don't know what you're thinking," Lestrade heard Sherlock mutter _of course not_ yet continued anyway, "but, well I'll probably regret this, count me in. I know John's innocent and I'll do anything in my power to help you prove that."

Sherlock answered without looking directly at Lestrade, "yes of course he's innocent. This is obviously the work of Sebastian Moran. Our final game together. Lestrade, I'll need to see everything regarding John's case tomorrow. For now, take a seat detective-inspector. It seems we have some more catching up to do."

Not exactly understanding what was happening, Lestrade took a seat as per instructed.

And so began his final case.

**A/N: And so began this story. The universe seems to be against me these days and I can just feel it affecting the way I write but I couldn't put off writing this story any longer. It's been a nagging voice at the back of my mind for days. Now that I got some of it out of my system it's time to catch up on some much needed sleep! Thanks for reading (: **


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